Flawless
by Blue eyed fantasies
Summary: We all have our flaws. Some, like Kurt, just have bigger ones than most people. But Blaine can't see Kurt's flaws. Literally. So maybe, they can be flawless together.


_We all have our flaws. Some, like Kurt, just have bigger ones than most people. But Blaine can't see Kurt's flaws. Literally. So maybe, they can be flawless together._

**So, I've never written a Glee Fanfic although I've been reading them for a while. I tend to stick to The Mortal Instruments series by Cassandra Clare. But recently I've become a little obsessed with Klaine. They are just so cute. :3 Anyway, this idea has been going around my head recently. It's probably been done before , *sigh*, but I just wanted to try it out. Hopefully someone likes it...*fingers crossed*. If you do, please tell me. :)**

**I don't own Glee. It belongs to that Fox guy. :)**

* * *

**Chapter 1 - Hope**

_"It's the children the world almost breaks who grow up to save it."_ ― Frank Warren

"So...Kurt, how do you think you're getting on?" That was always the first question she asked me. Not _how_ are you getting on but how do you _think_ you are getting on. Apparently, they're two completely different things.

"Pretty well," I ground out, the standard answer.

She sighed, as she always did, like I'd disappointed her, failed a test or something. Because it wasn't the truth and she knew it. _"The truth is the first step,"_ she always told me. And I never listened.

I guess you could call me ungrateful or whatever. Emma Pillsbury invests so much time and effort into these counselling sessions and I just sit there, refusing to budge, not telling her anything. What I don't tell her is that it's my way of controlling things. I have minimal control over the state of my lungs but I decide whether to lie or not, I decide what and what not to tell her. No-one could take it away from me.

Then again, lies don't always work. People get better at spotting them the more you use them.

"No Kurt, you're not," she leaned her elbows on the desk, rubbing her tired eyes. They were all dark and baggy. I was half thinking of suggesting my skin cream for her. She definitely needed it.

Emma cut off my thoughts. "You're not getting any better. In fact, you're getting worse. I hear things, reports of...of substance abuse, robbery, _smoking_ on school grounds. Kurt, do you even know how seriously that can affect you? It's bad enough with completely healthy people! It's so d-dangerous for you! You have to be careful. In fact, no...no it just...it needs to stop." Her eyes were huge and wobbly, the green in them ten times more intense.

I thought at that point she might like to encompass me up in bubble wrap, keeping me safe from the rest of the world. Emma isn't really supposed to get too attached to her clients and usually she doesn't. Yet with me, everything changes. I'm allowed to call her Emma instead of Miss Pillsbury for God's sake - Em if she's feeling particularly 'down with the kids'. She's more often than not like a mother, a crazily overprotective one at that. I'm the exceptional client, having been with her for so long, over the many years - despite my better judgement. Strangely enough, I am also her most difficult client, not having progressed at all over said years. _"It has never happened before"_, she said once. She's also determined that it won't happen, not any more. She will fix me.

_"I'm not giving up on you Kurt. So don't give up on me. We can do this."_

I'm not so sure. In fact, I don't know why she hasn't given up already. Even _I_ would have given up on myself by now.

I think I have actually.

"It was only one," I muttered sulkily, in protest to her smoking claim. _Or 7_, I added in my mind.

Emma narrowed her eyes. "Have you even been _going_ to physiotherapy?"

I shrugged. "Sometimes." yeah, that was probably true. I went once or twice. But I hated it. It was so disgusting. Everything about my condition disgusts me.

"Kurt, this seriously needs to stop. It's... It's going to have a serious impact on your health. You're shortening your life even more by doing this. Is that what you _want_? To not live past 25?" She was trying to be authority. It wasn't really working though.

I merely scoffed. "I'm perfectly fine, just peachy." I smiled sarcastically. Just my luck, I started coughing violently after I said it; my body's way of saying "karma, bitch".

We don't really get along: my body and I. I've never liked it, in its faulty and failing state. In fact, I went through a faze of being obsessed with 'Freaky Friday' when I was little, when my mother was still with us. I think it was the whole 'swapping bodies' thing. Nobody knew how desperately I wanted that to happen, even though my young mind knew it wasn't possible. I would wake up and see the same old pale skin, a wave of disappointment drowning me every morning. It was so dumb. I hadn't realised then that to stop the disappointment, you just have to stop hoping.

I realise that now.

Emma leapt out of her seat, patting my back and passing me a tissue. As she relocated back behind the desk, the skeptical look she gave me said it all. _"Peachy? Really?"_ I don't think I've ever been peachy all my life.

I rolled my eyes. "Ok, so I'm not perfectly fine." I was breathing harshly, defeated. We all have our flaws. Some, like me, have bigger ones than most like, my lungs giving up on me rather than for some a slightly fuller lip. Lucky bastards. The trivial things seem to pale in comparison. I scoff at anyone even thinking of getting cosmetic surgery.

It was with that bitter thought that I began my speech, trying to dredge up as much air as possible in preparation for it. I knowingly placed my shiny, purple Doc Martin boots on the immaculate desk, just to make her flinch. I hadn't even worn them a few hours - just got them on sale - so they weren't muddy. It didn't take much to set Emma off though. This time was no exception. Her eye started twitching, as it always does when I do something 'unclean'. _We know each other too well_, I thought.

It's never good when you start picking up on your counsellor's problems more than your own.

"I may not be _peachy_," I spat. "But so what? What's the point? My behaviour's not going to get any better, my health isn't going to get better. Hell, my **life** isn't going to get any better. In fact," I paused for a minute, trying to catch my breath, "why not make it 20 that I live to. Yeah, that's a...a nice round figure. It's not like my life's anything to be proud of or worth holding onto." Pause. "I've done my...my fair share of bad things, **terrible** things. The sooner I leave, the better." Having made my point, I removed my feet from the table. It wasn't that comfortable anyway, just a statement.

Emma sighed, frantically reaching for a mini Hoover and sucking away the invisible marks and minute motes of dust my boots had left behind on the spotless white desk. The roar of the machine seemed too harsh in the small room yet she didn't seem to notice, too sucked away in her freaky little OCD world. Like I said, flaws. Having done that, she set to work furiously scrubbing and polishing it. She was almost breathing as heavily as me now, an even match.

"You don't mean that," she finally puffed as she settled back down behind the desk, smoothing the pristine white finish. It still looked exactly the same as before although I refrained from pointing this out to her. It's not like it would change anything.

I had thought I meant it. I had believed it. Maybe Emma saw something different, maybe I was starting to believe my own lies now. It was probably a bad sign.

"Don't I?" I asked, absentmindedly expecting my nails. One was a little uneven. I wish I'd brought a nail file with me. I usually do. Might as well be doing something necessary in my hour's session.

"Well..you might mean it but you don't...you can't want it." I furrowed my pruned eyebrows in confusion. Weren't meaning and wanting the same thing?

"Why can't I mean it?" I asked stubbornly.

"Because Kurt I specifically remember when you were," she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, "fourteen you said that you wanted to live as long as you possibly could. You made me promise to help you. I keep them Kurt, promises. But you didn't keep yours."

"Smoking cigarettes isn't exactly helping your case. And you promised to me you'd do everything you could...to stay as long as possible." She paused, as if thinking something through.

Finally, she nodded to herself decidedly. "I've been considering this for a while," she admitted before rifling through her oversized hand bag that I knew to be stuffed full of leaflets, all with brash, supposedly humorous titles. I didn't quite see the humour in my illness but she obviously had enough optimism for both of us to make light of the situation. I rolled my eyes as she produced -surprise, surprise - a pamphlet.

"Oh my _God_," I sighed dramatically. "Please not another, 'so you're terminal' pamphlet."

Emma hushed me, sliding the leaflet across the desk. Embossed on the front were the words "New Hope" with a picture of some smiling kids clearly from all backgrounds underneath it. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at how staged and cliche it all looked; a group of cripples smiling like little angels. Bleh. Emma gestured for me to read it aloud, perhaps just to see if I can without stopping.

I obliged, in perfect monotone. "New Hope, a unique centre offering kids of all kinds hope." I broke off coughing. She pushed the already half empty bottle of water towards me. Once able to speak, I raised my eyebrows. "A bit of a lame description, don't you think? Who came up with _that_?"

Emma blushed, her cheeks going as red as her hair. She muttered awkwardly, "My fiancée, Will Scheuster. I told him it was quite..."

"Shit?" I filled in.

"Badly worded. Language Kurt", she scolded, fixing me with a pointed stare. I just ignored her. She'd heard worse from me before. "He doesn't quite have the...gift of words."

"Like _you_ do Miss P?" I retorted.

She purposely ignored me, instead opening the leaflet. I could tell it was going to be crap already; made out of unglossy paper. Never trust the ones that aren't glossy. Actually, just don't trust leaflets at all. They're never good. Maybe that's just because I've only read Emma's though.

Inside was a more detailed description of what the place offered, including a rather blurry picture of what looked to be an unwisely chosen bright orange building. A kid in a wheelchair was hovering near it, looking a bit embarrassed. I wasn't surprised. I would have worn a face mask if I was him. This kid didn't look like he had much going for him looks wise though: scrawny frame, geeky glasses, light up wheelchair. It was utterly cringeworthy.

"Will funded it himself and I help out when I can but...money's tight," Emma said, kind of explaining my unanswered question of why the whole place looked so, rough and well, shit. It was brimming with absolutely disastrous decorating - sickly green couches clashing with rust red walls and yellow and blue polka dot cushions. Despite this, Emma looked kind of...proud of her fiancee's work, a small smile dancing on her lips. "Doesn't it look good?" she asked with forced enthusiasm.

At my blank look, she quickly turned over the page. "And they have a choir called the New Directions."

"Ah, I see, going with the whole 'New' theme. Very clever," I observed.

Emma still looked very excited, despite my negative comments. "They made it to Nationals in the show choir completion in New York last year! There are some absolutely amazing singers and extremely talented kids there. Kids around your age like Quinn and Artie," she pointed to the wheelchair kid "and...

"...And you're telling me this because?" I cut her off, tapping my manicured nails impatiently. I glanced at the big clock above her head. Only 5 more minutes left. They stretched before me like years.

Emma looked a tad disheartened. "W-well, I just thought that you might, um, benefit from being around kids who are...in a similar situation...t-to you."

"Diseased, you mean?" I asked bluntly.P

"Um well, kids with disabilities, not necessarily...illnesses but...yes. Similar to you in many ways."

"Emma, I'm not going to some crappy place for dying kids. I'm not...dying." _Yet_, I added silently.

She looked indignant. "Most of them are in better shape than _you_ Kurt Hummel. It's not..." she paused, a solemn look on her face as she whispered, "end of life care. I wouldn't be sending you there if it was. It's just a... a place to go to meet people...like you, who understand you."

"Why?" I asked, a whining creeping into my voice. I sounded pretty pathetic. "I mean, what the hell could I possibly gain from this?"

Emma looked at me then, a sad tint in her green eyes. "Hope," she said simply.

"I _have_ hope," I said in probably the most unconvincing voice ever. It wasn't even worth either of us even trying to believe it.

Emma reached across for my arms, a universal gesture for all guidance counsellors around the world that did absolutely nothing. At least, I thought it did nothing.

"Kurt, I know this'll be good for you. The people you hang around now...they're not, not good people. Not good for you. This will be good. Yes, good." I wasn't sure who she was trying to convince: me or her? Either way, she wasn't doing a great job of it.

"And who knows, maybe the other kids will benefit as well," she added with a weak laugh.

I snorted. It would be going well if I didn't make them all cry on the first day.

"Do I _have_ to go?" I asked, searching her green eyes for any sign of backing down or weakness.

There was no familiar vulnerability hidden among folds of moss green. I looked in all the usual places but it was gone, for once. They were strong, like steel. Strong with resolve.

A little bell clanged, neatly signalling the end of our session. I immediately relinquished my hands from her clammy ones. Her engagement ring had been digging into my skin.

"Fine," I finally snapped. I grabbed my bag from the chair, preparing to leave.

"Kurt," she called after me. I swivelled round. She was now standing behind her desk but I towered over her as I moved back to her.

"Yes?" I asked brusquely.

She bit her lip before placing the unglossy leaflet in my hand. "Go immediately after school." I nodded. "And..."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Just..._please_ try. I hate to admit and...and I probably shouldn't admit it but it...it's my last...my last hope for you." I bit back a gasp, frowning. This was new. She had never said anything even vaguely pessimistic before. A few cigarettes and she was giving up _hope_? I had given mine away a long time ago but it was always reassuring to know that someone else was keeping it safe for me, even if it was Emma Pillsbury of all people. To think that it wasn't there was very disconcerting.

As I shakily turned away, I tried to reassure myself that I had been imagining the tiny tear nestling in the corner of her eye. It was gone when I blinked so therefore it can't have been there. That's what I tell myself. Guidance counsellors don't cry, not when there're still hope. Because there is, isn't there?

"Okay," I said, a little unsteadily before I shut the glass door behind me with a soft click.  
_So New Hope's now my only hope_, I thought wryly.

_Oh dear God help me._

* * *

**Hmm, I thought Emma was quite OOC. And it was vague. All will be revealed...later on. **

**It'll get better...she says. :/**


End file.
